Page 70 of The Duke's Dream
Their gazes met.
The irresistible pull between them expanded, filling the space until it felt like no air was left.
"Do you believe me now?" His voice sounded husky.
She leaned against him, giving him all her weight. Reaching up to touch his face, she nodded slowly.
He believed her beautiful, and she reveled in the power of her body, in the earthiness of it. Her skin tingled where his hands touched her. How addicting. If being nude could make her feel so, she rather enjoyed the absence of clothes.
"I want—I want you inside me now."
He kissed her neck. "Aren't you sore? I don't want to hurt you again."
She bore her full weight over bleeding toes. Having him inside her was not pain. It was bliss.
"You won't."
He backed away and sat on the edge of the bed. With his arms around her waist, he guided her atop his lap, her spine meeting his chest.
"Never again will I lose my control with you." He brushed his nose against her neck and then sucked at the tender skin. "I don't want you to feel anything but pleasure. I will kiss your shoulder, and if my lips are not soft, you tell me. I will caress your skin, and if the pads of my fingers are not delicate, you tell me. I will brush my cheek against yours, and if my skin chafes you, you, being so much softer, you tell me, and I will stop. Upon my honor, I will stop. Even if it kills me, I will stop."
Helene's gaze flicked to his eyes. No longer icy gray, they had turned into the blue of a storm on the North Sea. What if what was at risk was not her body but her heart?
When he entered her, his erection filled her channel, wonderfully full. He went so deep, her breath escaped her. She saw in the mirror her head falling back against his chest, her mouth parting, his hand around her neck, then his mouth closing over her earlobe. He gripped her waist and pulled her down and up, down and up, a dance of pull and release. Pleasure burst, radiating from her core to her soul, and she held back a scream.
"How does it feel?" he asked, his voice rough.
"Full, tingling… nice."
"Only nice?"
"A nice way to reach the moon."
She felt him chuckling against her neck. "Then brace yourself. I plan to take you there many times before the night ends."
He made love with her slowly. For each part of her he exposed to the mirror, he told her how pretty she was. He held her breasts and flicked her nipples. Then he lowered his palms, trailing his hands down her thighs.
He grabbed her knees and pulled them open. Through the mirror, she saw her sex and the place they were joined. Her lips parted, and her heart raced. His breathing changed, too. He hooked one finger into her mouth, and she sucked his digit. As she gazed at their reflection, she marveled that this powerful man was paying homage to her. She rather liked this side of him, tender, commanding, in control of her, of himself. Fully clothed, he controlled her, and she could melt in his arms. It made her feel petite, feminine, and so desirable.
She had imagined making love would be akin to what she experienced after a performance or hearing glorious music, but this was different. It was physical and earthly and disorganized, animalistic.
And yet, she found beauty in it and found herself beautiful in his eyes. While the mirror judged, he applauded, while the mirror pointed at flaws, he kissed them, while the mirror was harsh, he was tender... She better not get used to it.
Then he touched her bud of desire, and thought dissolved into nothingness.
His fingers moved in maddening little circles, grazing where she needed, then teasing away, soaking in the slickness he summoned—always just out of reach.
She arched into him, breath catching, her body chasing the rhythm he refused to give.
And then he gave it to her. The right pressure. The right tempo.
Her head dropped against his shoulder, and her toes curled as if en pointe, every nerve stringing taut and electric. The pleasure pulsed from her center outward—like a pirouette spun out of control, tighter, faster, each turn building until she lost all sense of where she ended and he began.
The last thing she saw before she surrendered completely was the storm in his eyes—his own fall into the dance they had created together.
***
Helene stared at the glass of water without drinking it. The kitchen floor chilled her bare feet, and that sneaky draft was at it again, brushing her ears like a ghost with a grudge.
